A/N: I'm fairly certain that you will enjoy this chapter, dear reader ;)

Chapter 34

Afterwards, Riddle Apparated them into a familiar dining room. He got a hard shove. He stumbled and went for the long table. Looking backwards, Riddle's form was turned sharply away from him, as if barely restraining himself.

As if just the look of him was enough to fly off the handle.

The pain in his scar was making him nauseous. He sat. Two mugs appeared – tea was a constant parody of comfort these days it seemed. It smelled calming of jasmine this time. He pulled one close.

He was still crying, he hadn't quite got his chest to calm. And so he would just take a few breaths of this nice smell, fold his palms around the warmth and feel the roughness of the mug beneath his nails – witches and wizards did love their artisan things. Not at all like the cheap ones in the Dursley kitchen they'd just left.

Voldemort seated himself sideways across from him, some unclear time later. The man had been pacing, he recalled dully. Riddle spoke softly with an air of one continuing an earlier conversation:

"First I thought to myself look, all this I grant my foretold enemy and still he's ungrateful, when he should get to his knees in worship of me, of my mercy." One hand played over the varnished wood of the table, but the red eyes held his in a frozen stare. "But then, I tell myself, he's been coddled at Hogwarts, he needs some adjusting… And he's trying, he's attentive. He can hear the gong for each misstep he may consider, the loved ones who need not die if only he behaves..."

Harry put his streaming eyes into his palms. He couldn't look at the Dark Lord any second longer, the fear was just too much to confront head-on.

Voldemort whispered next: "Now I ask myself: do you want me as your enemy?"

He rocked back and forth to keep the next sob in. "No," he breathed. "I just- no."

"Well?" Riddle made one little word sound aggressive. "You just…."

He straightened, removed his palms. Somehow it was very clear what Voldemort was asking, beyond the words, beyond even his own personal interest. He clenched his fist, shoved it against his front teeth for a few seconds.

"I just didn't think." He suddenly missed his old glasses, which he could put down to make the world blur around him: it made things more gentle, dream-like. "You know how it went; it was a spur of the moment thing. I wanted to do something, instead of- "

It was the fear of things ahead choking him nowadays, who else would suffer for a toe stepped out of line, a fear realized mere minutes ago. And the other option was the Draught. He was just sick of it all.

"I just didn't want to face… this," he said between gulps of air, eyes sticking to the tabletop. "Not again. It's too much, you're too much."

"Too much for mere wizards and witches, yes of course. But you are not one of them. Look at me."

He finally looked up to meet the man's focused stare; this along with the scramble of feelings in his scar gave him the sense that under the fury, the man was appalled by what he'd almost done to himself. And not a little afraid.

"You do not want to examine this, I see, but by Salazar," Voldemort screeched while slamming a palm on the table – the polished surface tore up around his hand with a sound like wood breaking – "You will confront this now."

Smoke drifted upwards around them, a burning smell. The table looked a bit like the surface of a cracked eggshell, with jagged lines running its whole length. His elbows heated up painfully where they touched the table and so he hurriedly backed away.

He wasn't getting enough air again. He held up a hand: yes, just a moment. A sip of tea.

Voldemort slowly eased off to wait. What did he want to hear, how horrid this regime was and what it drove people to do?

"I was just scared." He often acted rashly in dangerous situations to try and safe others, but this time made the trade-off seem clearer. between Voldemort's demands and the lives of his friends. Riddle wouldn't understand guilt. "I thought if I could do something, I should. Because of the prophecy. I'm the one who is supposed to solve this war, however I can."

Snape had drawn his mind alongside that moment, to learn why he'd done it. Snape better not inform Voldemort for his own safety. It was weird how he wanted the git to live.

Riddle's gaze went from contained revulsion back to blankness. Voldemort's hands were idly touching the now torn-up edges of the table's surface.

"Did Dumbledore tell you to do this?"

He gave a shake of his head. "No. He-"

No stupid, shhh.

Riddle got up and around him, behind him. His fingers fisted in his hair, then violently pulled his head back and sideways so that he was looking at the ceiling. He winced at the complaint from his neck muscles.

" Yes ?"

"He explicitly told me not to do it," he whispered to the chandelier above them. "Said it was unacceptable, when I offered."

Voldemort's free hand drew over the scars on his throat. "One thing he and I agree on, then." A depressing thought. "But you did it anyway." The hands left and he closed his eyes, pushed his shoulders and the fear down, down.

"What happens to those who try to destroy what's mine?"

He yelled in surprise at the sudden waterfall of pain: the torture curse had his muscles twisting, pulling beyond their capacity. At some point he fell to the ground and he scrambled to hide, anything, but there was no escaping.

It took an abhorrent while until Riddle stopped the curse. He gulped shallow breaths. That nightmarish voice, above him:

"I've crushed the will of battle-hardened Aurors, Harry, until they parted with every secret I wanted to know. Until they betrayed their families. Until they begged me for relief." He looked up to see Riddle turned away with gnashed teeth, before drawling on: "I've half a mind to string you up in Lucius' dungeon for that stunt…"

He remembered the nauseous picture Voldemort has shown him, after one of his near-escapes in the summer when he'd also been nearing the end of Voldemort's patience. How he would be nailed against the dungeons, bleeding from lacerations, eyes torn away…

The wizard tapped his wand against his leg as his flat gaze roamed over him, considering, weighing...

He kept silent.

"Crucio."

He screamed again. The curse stopped.

Voldemort's voice shook with his rage: "Do you realise what an honour it is, to host part of my soul? And how you tramp on that honour."

Another bout of torture – on and on. Afterwards, he realised at some point that he was lying face down against cold stone, one cheek to the gleaming floor, his face wet. He tried to be very still since moving any muscle hurt, although his wheezing breaths were loud in the silence. The bone-wringing feeling didn't let him go, though it had lessened. His eyes were closed as he wrestled with nausea from the constant taste of blood on his tongue.

"What would be my response, were you to have been successful at killing yourself?"

A noise of fabric – Voldemort moving. The slightest breeze and he sucked in a breath at the brief touch to his left cheek. He twisted a bit to lie onto his back. The man had crouched down as he sometimes did with him, and he felt at once disgusted with himself for dwelling on this.

"You are fearful only for others. Now you've faced your fear. It has happened: someone close to you is dead." He raised a brow. "Up till now I've resisted making this point to you."

He blinked at the man, thoughts too slow to get that point.

"No friends of yours have perished under my wand yet – at least not intentionally, the Weasley girl was an… unfortunate exception. And do you know why?"

Describing Ginny's murder as 'unfortunate' was like a vampire that regretted its victim's loss of blood. Though yes he was seeing a pattern: the man had wanted to get at Ron but he hadn't yet. Umbridge dead, Smith dead, now Vernon dead. At least Dudley would still have his mother now. For he had realised standing in the so familiar kitchen, that he couldn't imagine Dudley without her.

The pain in his scar flared at his silence.

"I have- I wondered about that," he croaked.

Ever so slowly he pushed himself upwards. He almost fell but then managed to catch a chair and settled into it. His fingers on the table were shaking. The man reached out, caught his right hand-

It burned.

A feeling of fire tore through the skin. He jerked, was let go after two costly seconds, cradled the reddened hand. It needed water to stop the burns from burrowing deeper – a hard-worn knowledge from years at the Dursley stove. There was a pitcher nearby though…

"Please, sir, give me the water-?"

Riddle chuckled. Next with a strong push, his head slammed sideways into the table. He moaned softly, frozen with Riddle's palm jamming into his cheekbones, eyes tearing up but with pain this time. Perhaps this here was not so much about punishment, but more about his own absolute helplessness under Voldemort's cruel hands.

"Why do I restrain myself from finding and flaying that Muggleborn friend of yours, Potter?" the man hissed in an undertone as Harry stretched his undamaged hand towards the pitcher. It was out of reach. "Why did I keep my servants from tracing the Weasley boy and squashing him through his Mark? Say it."

He was glad to be stuck to a solid surface: his vision was blurry. "You need them to hold over me," he murmured. "In case I… do something foolish."

"Until?" Voldemort's hands moved to his shoulders. The pitcher slid into his undamaged hand which was still reaching. He raised his swimming head, dipped the cloth blindly and draped it over the burns.

"Until… you don't need me anymore. Until you're done with me."

Riddle bend next to his head now: "And when are we done, Harry?"

He closed his eyes at the use of his first name. "When I- when I die."

"And when will that be?"

He wanted to burrow into his palms again; it couldn't actually be possible. But at least to Voldemort, who was not an incompetent wizard by any standard, it was.

"Never."

Voldemort tsked for he'd said it so sullenly – though his scar now pulsed with a calming warmth. His aching head, it felt fine now. His stiff posture loosened without thought, shoulders sinking. He snapped his eyes open when he realized he'd been tipping back his head in utter relaxation.

He stood up slowly and shook himself, but he was still... floating. "Stop it."

If only he'd had this magic back when he was little, those times that Petunia shuttered him back in his cupboard after a painful cooking error. She hadn't cared and he had to learn on his own how to treat his wounds.

"Oh but you enjoy it. And no wonder; you have a unique window onto my vast powers. And I enjoy that conflict you are clearly wrestling with now."

Riddle had drawn back. Finally, some distance… He shook his head, but the disquiet flattened out again in his mind, within the deep feeling of restfulness. He drew a slow breath in, out, in. Immersive it was, like the warm bath he'd had in the prefect's bathroom in fourth year.

Riddle twirled his wand idly and went on with what seemed a non-sequitur: "You are aware that I've gone as far as humanly possible to escape death."

"But I'm not- I'll die someday."

The pleasant hold over his body left him like a switch turned; once more he felt the heaviness of his muscles, the pain that gradually seeped back into his hand and temple.

Riddle still believed he could die, right? Or he wouldn't be so afraid when he tried to turn his wand on himself. So this immortality thing, if he was telling the truth and why would he be, only meant he had all the time in the world to find the perfect way, or to wait for fortunes to change.

Riddle was smirking. "You have Dumbledore to thank for cementing your worth to me, Potter. Your dear leader of the light forced a Dementor on you. A gamble that turned out badly for him: it fused my horcrux to you permanently, tying us for the ages."

No way. He shook his head. "Your horcrux will live on then, I won't."

Suddenly the Dark Lord was in his face again, grabbing his neck and squeezing. With the table now digging into his lower back, there was nowhere to escape him.

"What will it take to get through to you," Voldemort breathed as he increased the pressure, "that your callous, near-covetous attitude towards death is displeasing to me?"

Didn't the man just love to introduce mortal hazards while telling him his life was so important? Too bad, displease away. This particular hollow brand of concern did nothing for him, and he was itching to provoke Voldemort – after all, he was in the unique position to do so and this man dearly needed a lesson about sowing and reaping.

"You started this," he gasped. "Destroying everyone I care about. People say I have no sense of self-preservation. Well, you taught me how to value my life. Killing my parents and leaving me with those assholes, for starters." Well, one them was dead now… moving on. "And now you tell me you ca- you care whether I care?"

Voldemort let him go as suddenly as he'd started and Harry wheezed. The Dark Lord leaned back on the table next to him in a languid manner, tilting his head like he was a prey to study. His stomach rebelled again, for the man had recognized his little slip-up there.

"The lady doth protest too much… Indeed I detest that lack of self-preservation you have with regards to my vessel, but care… The reasoning of a typical hungry orphan. You confuse your worth to me – although you are nearly becoming more trouble than you're worth – with- well, surely not with an emotional investment in you, Harry?"

The Dark Lord grinned coldly, shifted his stance to catch his eyes. "Lord Voldemort, harbouring affection. My, such conceit from you. I'm used to my servants projecting their own yearnings on me, but now even the chosen one cannot help but want my approval."

He scowled as he felt a flush creep up his neck. Gods, and calling him that awful title. But look at that: he knew he was being taunted yet he was spinning to the man's tune again – Voldemort was now drinking in his reaction with slightly narrowed eyes.

The sheer egoism… He'd just have to stop responding, then, since all of it would be willfully misinterpreted as a yearning for approval . Later he could deal with the truth that was also in there – that somewhere along the way, Voldemort's words, his asides and glances, his tempers and his little lessons for him, well… lately all of it seemed to be of such importance. But that would mean he was actually, genuinely losing it and he-

Would. Not. Loose. It.

"Harry, Harry," Riddle was saying softly in a tone that brimmed amusement – it made the next twist of nerves in his stomach burn sharper. He looked away with balled fists, fearful for his own expression.

But Voldemort seemed to guess anyway:

"How well you respond to a non-violent approach. I am doing you a service here, freeing you from the one responsible for making you so mushy."

The end was spat in disgust. Riddle's words spoke of a youth spend among such hungry creatures; of setting himself above that, above the yearnings as he put it and grasp for power instead, which meant you didn't need others to feel good. So he could also see it in Harry.

His eyes had drifted wishfully towards the windows and the grounds beyond where he probably wasn't allowed. But Voldemort wasn't done making terrible points:

"Though I must commend him for your… harsh upbringing, which makes you so responsive to my, well, let's call it affection if you like then, shall we?"

He closed his eyes, feeling like he was crumbling with self-loathing, a ruin. He was tired. Couldn't he for once in his life quit being that needy orphan, or at least stop putting his emotions on display for others to exploit? This need for approval or whatever it was… disgusting and dangerous in the hands of this fiend.

He straightened and lifted his chin with a hateful look – it meant nothing, everyone could infer this from him; he , Tom Riddle, wasn't special in that regard because it wasn't about him at all: Harry was just sensitive to that sort of thing. So wasn't Voldemort the one projecting things here?

The man lifted an arm and he flinched back. Slender fingers pulled gently at the back of his head. He begged silently to no one that he'd stop there. But then, with just a nudge to his shoulder, he got drawn into another farcical embrace.

Riddle always wore loose-fitting cloths, perhaps for agility, which left his collarbones free. His heart beat unfiltered against Harry's ear, and it mocked his own dark thoughts of Riddle's inhumanity. Blessedly there was no chest hair to tickle his nose – nothing like the little glimpses he'd gotten of Sirius' chest over the years.

He stood stiffly, his trembling contained now. What kind of ploy was this, when Voldemort hated touch? Did Harry's face reveal something he wasn't aware of then, something unraveled, that here he was trapped in a second embrace with the Dark Lord and just days after the last one? Voldemort had hinted before that his emotions came through their link – was this his confirmation then, that he had lost it?

He pulled back hard, but Voldemort was stronger; he tightened his arms. Perhaps he doth protest too much as well. After all, he saw Harry like Nagini.

Although, this seemed to be about showing him his place and tearing down his notions of the world and himself. He shivered then, as his thoughts cleared away like cobwebs: Voldemort had taken up the gauntlet he'd thrown at him – the willful thought that Tom Riddle could just get in line with everyone else, he was no one special to Harry.

The cool skin was warming around him, the expense of chest undeniably soothing and terrifying at the same time… For what pains were still in store? When where they done for today? He felt wrung out with a grief that was making his eyes hot. He bowed his head to led the tears slide from his cheeks into his hair, undetectable.

"You will need to camouflage that scar on your neck," Riddle mused above him. "Severus will do this."

A safer subject, but it made him feel reckless in contrast, now that he didn't have that red gaze bore into him. He always wanted an out after all: he was claustrophobic that way, ever since his days in the cupboard, and if Riddle wanted to play the immortal game than there had to be an escape somewhere, even if it would be years in the future, even if only in death.

And so he'd drink this whole poisonous cup down.

"Do you really want to deal with me for such a long time?" he murmured, feeling the man freeze around him at the implication – what would it take? "I mean, is it worth the effort, really? Because I'll always want to- to loose that part of me."

"Thinking about the next attempt already?" Voldemort hissed into his hair, making him jump a little. "Suicidal brat!"

The man straightened and snapped his fingers, though he didn't let go of his head. Tadders' voice then, sounded close to the ground: "How can Tadders be of service, masters?"

He tried to focus on his hands and the soft fabric of the robes they were holding, but having the man so close made the fear only worse. There was such a thing as being too honest, he knew. Who in there right mind would provoke the Dark Lord like this? Oh yes, that would be him. Perhaps permission to leave had been mere seconds away but no, he had to push...

"I want a Hogwarts elf here, now."

Tadders popped away, and returned a few beats later while Harry fought to raise his head away from the other man. Another pop, and another lady voice:

"My Lord, what do you wish of Trellandar?"

He knew that name from Dobby: this was the elderly lady who oversaw all the cooking. He remembered he'd seen one particularly old elf standing at the center of the four tables bellowing orders, one time he went to the kitchens during lunch. Perhaps she was an elder elf.

"Get me the Longbottom boy. You will find him in the greenhouses." Again Voldemort would summon a friend to teach him the lesson he still hadn't learned since Narda.

She popped away. He tried to jerk free again and this time, Voldemort let him draw back to arm's length, studying his tight expression. Tadders was completely covered in his or her black outfit and stood close by, head bowed.

Trellandar returned – indeed the same wrinkly elf lady clothed in the Hogwarts livery with the Slytherin crest in the center. She had Neville in tow, who was taking in what had to be a weird scene.

Neville took a shaky breath, then sagged into a bow. "Sir- my Lord."

"Elves, go and cut off one of his fingers – the left hand."

"What!" He twisted and stumbled free when Riddle's hands retreated.

Neville whimpered.

"You can still use your hand afterwards, Longbottom," Voldemort seemed to want to reassure him in a bored tone. "And it's all for an honourable cause. We will get your wild friend here to find his resolve and lose his self-destructive urges."

"No!"

Voldemort swept behind Harry and folded around him again with one arm around his heaving chest.

"All- alright," Neville stammered, rising. Trellandar was frowning in consideration.

"Neville you twat! Nothing here is alright."

He pushed an elbow behind him, but got some kind of electric-like shock for it that took hold of his whole body. He screamed for the few seconds in which the pain spiked to nauseous heights, some kind of resonance taking hold between the nerve damage already there and the new assault. His limbs seemed not his own and he would've dropped to the ground if not for Riddle's hold. His tongue ached – he'd bitten down on it then.

His friend looked a bit grey as he regarded them, eyes shifting from Riddle's hold upwards. Neville said something but Harry's ears were slow to connect sounds. Voldemort was gesturing for him to continue.

A moment later he could focus again:

"Well, you see my Lord, if it's about Harry being reckless and getting himself into harm's way. I know him very well."

Harry gaped, feeling a vague sense of betrayal. The Dark Lord kept silent and Neville continued:

"I know how to keep him from endangering himself. I've stopped him before. Harry will do this for me." Ah, his argument was first year?

"Show me."

Neville straightened to look him in the eye with admirable resolve. After a beat Riddle sneered: "Unsuccessfully."

Neville nodded the truth of this, his shoulders slumping. Riddle pushed him, Harry, to the side and he sagged to the ground: his muscles were done for the rest of the day, it seemed.

"It'll need to be more convincing for it to stick, you'll agree I'm sure." Voldemort raised his eyebrows at Trellander.

She nodded back, raising her arm.

He realized two things: she'd been conflicted before and apparently Riddle would not be able to force her in that case – perhaps it was an old Hogwarts protection thing, Hermione would know. Taking a finger was deemed acceptable for a Hogwarts elf, though. She opened her mouth-

He yelled: "No! I will-"

"Really?" Voldemort cut in gleefully – he'd been waiting for this it seemed. "I am to believe you will stop resisting your faith, just to safe one of Longbottom's fingers?"

He scowled as he managed to sit up: they were being played. Voldemort was patiently waiting him out on this.

"Yes."

The pain in his scar seemed nothing now, after the horrors of a minute ago. But yes, he got the point. "My lord," he growled. It seemed Riddle was adamant with an audience.

"No more thoughts of killing yourself, or actions regarding self-destruction?"

Jesus Christ. He took a sharp breath, reluctant to look at Neville: his friend had taken his eyes off the danger to regard only him, with a look of horror that made his insides squirm.

This was so not the right picture he was getting, but there was no way of explaining his sudden morbid tendencies without putting Neville at risk. So here it was: the Dark Lord wanted Neville to know, so he could harness their friendship and have him stand guard against further attempts.

Neville was too important to screw this up. "That's right, my Lord. I won't do anything to endanger myself."

"Or think of it."

He turned away for just a second lest he say something very stupid. An absurd request. "Or think of it."

"Good. Let's return to our discussion. Longbottom you can go – your grandmother's noble actions are protecting you. And remember your promise to Lord Voldemort."

It was disgusting to witness the man spread mercy like it was gold.

"I will, sir," Neville fairly breathed in relief. Trellander placed a finger on his arm and they both vanished. Tadders bowed and left after a gesture.

He hated the quiet that followed with just the two of them.

"Get up."

He didn't trust his legs to hold him but he tried anyway – Voldemort pulled him the rest of the way and put him to rest against the table again.

"As to appropriating Bella... I think a personal touch resonates better with you."

He remembered Dumbledore's warning when he summoned Bellatrix: to Riddle it was another matter to actively resist the regime in this way.

Voldemort backed off a few meters to consider him. "So willing to suffer in secret your whole life. First at the hands of your Muggle family, then for Dumbledore's cause. But the moment others notice your suffering – as they did when those boys nearly killed you and your unconscious body made the front page – then you feel shame at those stares, the pity and fascination. How you'd hate it if they were to see you suffer still, now that you are under my protection." He swept close while Harry felt nailed to the ground, waiting for the point in all this. "For I've made certain no one interferes with you, unless with my permission."

Wack.

He grunted at the impact of the blow, swiveling sideways: it came out of nowhere, full-handed; the man's left hand had struck his right cheek. He took a deep breath. His upset stomach churned further.

"I will tell you what they'd see. That you are honoured Potter, above your station, to get Lord Voldemort's personal consideration."

The Dark Lord could prattle on about investment and being above any attachments all he wanted: he was obsessed. He was still catching his breath, turned away, but of course Voldemort took his chin to face him again. The man's nostrils flared – frustration and a kind of satisfaction were drizzling into his scar.

"So we will let them see it, the next generation of wizards and witches at my command. How you receive my punishment."

Hogwarts, he thought blearily though with a twinge of joy, that must be what he meant. Seeing his friends, just being a normal student again, talking to McGonagall perhaps… He quickly shifted his eyes away, but Voldemort had got some gist of it:

"You continue to resist your place, with those thoughts."

He rolled his eyes as he rubbed his searing cheek. In his bedroom he might find that salve he'd gotten from somewhere…

"Perhaps your classmates will get you to see sense, find a better purpose than the rot you are wallowing in now."

Another casual slap; a backhand to the left side of his face this time. He twisted back over the table's surface, feeling his face and neck start to burn.

Silence stretched between them except for Harry's heavy breaths. He braced himself, pushed up on weak arms, turned to lean back against the table. Was he a sucker for this? He should run, to his room, at least try.

The man's eyes skidded between his own. "When I no longer see that rebellious streak in your mind," he uttered in a melodious tone as if explaining something simple, "I won't have to make such a spectacle of your face again." He sounded the scolding father: see how this works?

"Onto the next point. You will not interfere with any more of my Death Eaters, Harry. That includes Severus."

Was it Snape who told him about last week? Surely not. A shame: he would miss putting Nott in his place then, the one attacker still happily attending classes after nearly killing him.

"I don't care about the children, Potter." He scowled at the man's eerie guesses, since he'd been sure to avoid his gaze. Voldemort continued: "They are spoiled and undisciplined, most of them. I trust you'll intervene only if they cross the line."

He nodded towards the ground, wrestling down a tightness he didn't want to examine.

"Every Sunday morning I want you here, Potter, whatever your school schedule. Sunday mornings are appropriate don't you think? Like worshiping God at mass."

From the corner of his vision he saw Riddle's wand hand whirling, twitching with a building frustration that tightened over his shoulders – perhaps with needing to restrain himself to not put him in that dungeon… Well at least he was getting to him. And he got to you.

The man turned away, and his posture relaxed slowly. Just the red eyes slit back:

"You will leave that. If next week I find any glamours or traces of them, any vanishing salves, I will draw blood for the next round."

"The next round," he muttered at the wooden floors, feeling just brave enough to make it a statement but not a question. He was seeing spots of dark now, and he should slow down his breathing or he'd be out in minutes, seconds…

He clenched the table behind him hard when warmth like bottled sunlight poured over his scar. His sight returned and the pain and the shaking were gone, vanished just like that with Voldemort's magic. It made him wonder whether Voldemort felt like this all the time.

"Yes Harry, again you understand perfectly, but don't want to acknowledge your predicament."

He closed his eyes. So not only put up a docile front, but think different thoughts as well. And if he didn't: his face, a spectacle, each week.

He inhaled sharply when the magic left him as suddenly as it had come. The cold and shaking seeped back in, and most awful: the ghostly pain which, of course, wasn't cured just like that. He swallowed a sob. But there was something here that needed to be said or asked, and it was about the salve he wouldn't be using. He recalled now: Watanabe had given him that salve.

"Sir-"

The man whispered: "I am trying to restrain myself here, Potter, can you see? You should go."

"I see, sir, I appreciate that I just- I realized…" I saw you torture Watanabe, what did you do to him? Did you kill him? "I wondered, my old guard Mr. Watanabe, could you tell me..."

"He is assigned elsewhere, it's no concern of yours." Voldemort swept back his cloak, a habit signaling he was about to leave. "Enough of this. Stop that sniveling and be grateful with today's result, that you won't be in the dungeons." He snapped his fingers and Tadders returned. "The elf will take you back to Hogwarts to report to Severus. You will continue to visit with the headmaster daily, as before. Now get out of my sight."

Harry turned away towards the elf, stumbling a little. He wasn't feeling hurt by that dismissal, was he?

Tadders bowed to Voldemort and clasped Harry's wrist in a loose hold. They Apparated. Next his eyes adjusted to the darkness around him, with a doorway of light above them – they were standing on the moving staircase to the headmaster's tower.

"Thanks, Tadders."

"You are very welcome young master," Tadders whispered and vanished.

He clawed at the stones to drag himself up the stairs and past the open doorway. Snape looked up from his desk. He blinked, took him in with a complicated intensity.

His cheeks burned with warmth as well as the bruises, as he imagined his damaged face and how it must look.

Snape's sneer slowly formed again as he put down his quill to spell Harry's schedule for the next weeks on a spare piece of parchment, all in silence.

He looked down on the floating piece to see its content. There were his usual classes, but the dueling competition in November was new, and a line to attend all Slughorn's diner invitations. Why though: Tom Riddle had hated attending them himself… Pointless socializing with Slytherins in the near future.

Snape brandished something from his pocket: his wand. A marvel. He grasped the hand first with one, then two shaking hands because he wasn't sure he could keep hold of it otherwise. Snape took this in with a pinched expression, before it evened out into blankness.

"Mr. Malfoy has been notified of your arrival," Snape drawled. "You will wait for him here to accompany you to the dungeons. As of tomorrow, you will attend classes normally. That is Wednesday, Potter."

He nodded. Riddle had reminded him of the existence of newspapers: he was sure to be in them after his classmates saw him tomorrow. What would people think, with that face and after being gone for days? Would they realize at once it was Voldemort who painted this 'honour'? Hopefully they saw it as a mark of his resistence; though in fact he'd never been more pliant – chained tightly through blackmail and punishment. Perhaps Riddle wanted the rebels to feel hope, seeing him defiant still. But hope restrained, was falls hope.

Snape was studying him again, or still, he couldn't recall. "Do you require a painkiller?"

"Yes please, sir." Well, sure. The grinding in his muscles was exhausting, and the shock hadn't helped matters. To keep from falling he was gripping the upholstery of the lovely high-backed visitor's chair. He hadn't been invited to sit though, and he wouldn't ask. He was done with any sort of admonishments for today.

Snape stepped away towards an archway leading to a side room. He came back with a tiny glass vial between his thumb and forefinger, which held a bluish liquid.

"I only have the strongest pain relieve up here. Undiluted essence of the moonsund flower, for emergencies."

He swallowed to soften his aching throat. He couldn't tell if this warranted all of that. Although he was still shaking like someone dredged from the waters of a frozen lake. Dittany sounded like the logical choice but he could only remember topical treatments and surely Snape knew all the options.

Snape was waiting, what was the question again? "I don't know sir. Perhaps- perhaps you can be the judge of that."

"Oh I see your condition, Potter. Sit before you fall down."

"Yes, sir," he sighed. He touched down and hissed as his body complained against the pressure. The headmaster came to perch on the edge of the grant desk, lowering the vial to rest on a black-clad knee. He swept his gaze top do bottom.

"So.. your punishment for escaping."

He slowly nodded.

"Did you at least manage to restrain your usual cheek?"

"Yes," he hissed. He raised a heavy arm to indicate his face. "For Bella's escape. I mean Bellatrix." Snape's eyebrow had lifted at the name for Voldemort's second in command. "Also," he slurred a bit – the chair was quite comfy – "For thinking…. Wrong thoughts."

"Your nerves are overwrought. That may take some days to pass." He held out the vial. "Your choice, Potter. The infirmary's painkillers are more age-appropriate. However for Crucio, this works better."

However did Snape discover these funny little facts, one wondered?

He spread his palms up, grinning through teeth. "Sir. If the headmaster says the stronger drug is the best option, I'm all for that today."

Snape uncorked the vial – no snide remark – and held it out for him to take.

He realised was no longer holding the wand, but he didn't know where he'd left it either. Oh well. He took the vial carefully. Then he sagged backwards, tipped back the stuff to slide down his scream-torn throat.

"Thank you," he said sincerely. He let his eyes close to the sound of the scratching quill.

A/N: Well, let's say I do harbour some kind of fetish, don't I?

I'm quite satisfied with how this turned out, I hope you are too. Did it entertain you as well? Please share your thoughts: I'm a sucker for that. :)

There is some symbolism in this chapter about mentors coming and going in Harry's life, if you squint.